


The Last Unfortunate Hour of Alexander Pierce

by littleblackfox



Series: The Thrice Damned Fic [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: And the Author Has No Regrets, Blood, Body Horror, Horror, Improper Use of Kitchen Appliances, M/M, Terrible Things Happen to Alexander Pierce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9186080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: The Demon hums thoughtfully. “A bracelet, I think.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/gifts).



> A missing scene from the final chapter of River to the Ocean Go.
> 
> It's a love story. Or a horror.

Alexander Pierce’s hands shake as he pushes the key into the lock and turns it, shoving the door open and stumbling over the threshold. He fumbles as he tries to type the code into the alarm system. The control panel flashes red and he takes a moment to breathe and calm himself down before trying again. He types in the code with a steady hand and the panel flashes green, and he lets his shoulder sag in relief.  
That bitch Romanov, he purses his mouth. She needs to be dealt with.  
First things first, though. Retreat and regroup. He hurries up the stairs to the bedroom, retrieving the suitcase from behind a hidden panel in the wardrobe and unzipping it to check the contents. Clothes, toiletries, money, a fake passport. Keys to an apartment in Switzerland under a false identity. He doesn’t have much time to spare, and strips out of his blood spattered blue suit then quickly pulls on faded blue jeans and a grey sweater. Familiar clothes, anonymous. The expensive watch gets tossed onto the bed and replaced with something cheaper, more durable. The Italian handmade leather shoes get ditched in favour of boots.  
He zips up the suitcase and carries it downstairs, setting it in the hallway before turning to the kitchen to get a drink.

Alexander fetches a glass from the cupboard and opens the fridge door, grabbing a carton of milk. The light casts long shadows across the kitchen, and he sees something at the table shift, moving out of the shaft of light.  
He freezes, then slowly pushes the door closed. Bukavac.  
He sets the glass on the table and pours some milk, turning his back on the Demon to put the carton back in the fridge. That makes things a lot easier. Get out of the country, then set the Demon on that Romanov bitch.  
“The schedule has changed,” he announces, picking up the glass and taking a sip.  
The Demon flashes a smile, teeth long and sharp and white.  
“I need to be in Switzerland,” he sets the glass down again. “And you have an additional target. Romanov, Natasha. I want her dead, I don’t care how you do it, just make it slow.”  
The Demon doesn’t move, sat back in a chair with one hand resting on the table in front of it. Alexander notices a handful of items placed in a neat row in front of the creature. A pair of pliers, scissors, a paring knife from the kitchen drawer. Lengths of wire, copper and gold. Silver discs, stained with blood.  
The Demon does not move.  
Alexander finishes his glass of milk, smacking his lips. “Well, get to work,” he says sharply.  
The Demon leans forward. “There’s no circle,” it rasps.  
Alexander looks down at their feet. No, the Demon is not in a summoning circle. It doesn’t need to be, there are silver discs and bindings in it’s clothes. Copper tablets and gold wires under it’s skin, invocations and hexes cover every inch of its form. Alexander even has control over the Golem, a silvered clay arm to replace the one the Demon lost back in WW2, burned away to save the life of Steve Rogers.  
His eyes flick to the silver discs neatly stacked like a roll of pennies. The droplets of blood clinging to the wires.  
“Bukavac,” Alexander says sternly. “You will obey my commands.”  
The Demon smiles at him. “That’s not my name.”

“Sit,” the Demon murmurs, and Alexander finds himself pulling out a chair, dropping heavily into the seat.  
“What-” he utters dumbly.  
The Demon brushes its fingers over the tools laid out between them, thoughtful, considering. He finally settles on the paring knife.  
“This is not my first form,” he says idly, running his thumb along the blade. “That one is long gone, washed away, river to the ocean.” He gestures to Alexander with the blade. “Took a long time to make a new one, out of hate and fear and hurting. Give me your hand.”  
Alexander watches in horror as his right hand lifts up, his arm stretching out towards the Demon. His palm facing downward, his fingers trembling.  
“Thank you,” the Demon reaches up and curls its finger around the hand, turning it over and resting it flat on the table between them.  
“So that form was scattered to ashes, burned away by spells beyond my abilities, and I was cast to the void.” The Demon hums thoughtfully. “A bracelet, I think.”  
Alexander grits his teeth and flexes his arm, but no matter what he tries, his hand remains flat on the table between them.  
“It took a long time to make the first form. A long, long time. The second came faster, I know what I was doing,” the Demon looks wistful. “And he was calling to me. I just had to follow after.” The Demon blinks and it’s mouth twists with distaste. “So you can imagine how pissed I was to finally have a body again only to have you take control of me.”  
The Demon jabs the paring knife into Alexander's index finger and slices down, indifferent to his scream.

The proximal phalanx pops out easily, followed by the middle and distal phalanxes. The Demon lays the phalanges neatly out on the table, rubbing the smears of blood off each bone. Alexander whines, perspiration mixing with tears and beading on his chin, a fat drop hanging briefly before splashing down onto the table.  
“If you kill me,” Alexander gasps, “Someone else will take my place.” He keens as the Demon pushes the blade into his second finger and slices. “I’ve taken good care of you, your next Master won’t be so kind.”  
The Demon snorts and pulls out each bone, one by one, laying them out on the table.  
“The Russians,” Alexander wheezes. “They already know your name. Know how to summon you,” a smile creases his old, worn features. “Paid a good price for you, and a schematic of all the spells tucked under your skin.”  
The Demon glances at him and slices into another finger. Alexander doesn’t scream, but bares his teeth.  
“You got the silver out,” Alexander glances at the flat silver discs stacked on the table like poker chips, each one inscribed with a curse. “But there’s copper and gold and iron still in there, in places you can’t reach.”  
The Demon flays open the little finger, and the bones come out to join the others.  
“You ever wonder how I came to be a Demon? You ever care?” The Demon slices his thumb, levering out the metacarpal with the flat of his blade. “Nah, course you didn’t. Old witch, came out of the river, shoved a stone in my mouth. A big, heavy stone soaked in her blood and scratched with whatever. The weight of it dragged me down into the earth.” He cuts into Alexander's palm and pulls out the metacarpals, one by one. “Point is, you think you’re the first fucker to shove crap in me? You’re not.”  
The Demon arranges the bones in a line, from the smallest distal to the largest proximal.  
“You’re still in chains,” Alexander spits. “Whatever you do to me you’re still bound to this plane.”  
“He ain’t like the rest of us, he wasn’t born in pain,” the Demon smiles to himself. “My Stevie.” The Demon smiles at him, it’s disarmingly gentle. “The world is changing, Alexander. He’s changing it. Haven’t you seen the news?” The Demon tilts its head. “We ain’t bowing to your kind no more.”  
Alexander growls. “You think that stone arm will still work once I’m dead? You’re bound to me. You will always be a slave.”  
The Demon shrugs. “He’ll find me. And when he does, he’ll fix me up. Take out all the metal and stone.” The Demon passes his fingers over the array of bones. “Because he’s my guy. And I don’t belong to you or the Russians or any other fucker you sold me to. I belong to him. He belongs to me.”  
The Demon smiles again, soft and open. “Give me your other hand.”

Alexander shivers, his hands laid out before him, flat and flayed open on the table like a pair of leather gloves. The Demon sits on the table, his feet swinging idly back and forth as he binds together bones with a length of gold wire. He picks up a silver disc in his clay hand and punches a hole in it, threading it onto the wire and fixing it in place with a distal phalange.  
“You kinda look like him,” the Demon mutters idly.  
Alexander lifts his head and utters a faint, hoarse whimper, his voice long since ruined.  
“Not now, obviously. Now you’re kind of a sultana in jeans. Back then,” the Demon adds another bone, twisting the gold wire around it until it’s secure. “When you first called me out of the void? You looked like him. And for a moment I hesitated, you there with your book and your circle and your delusions of grandeur. “The Demon adds another bone. “Shaking in your patent leather shoes. Blond hair and blue eyes and I thought it was him, calling me home.” The Demon shakes its head. “Damned inconvenient.”  
Alexander coughs wetly. Blood pooling across the table.  
“What do you think?” the Demon asks, holding up Alexander's bones and the fine wires it had pulled out from under it’s own skin. A bracelet. A bracelet made from finger bones and metal discs and twisted wire.  
“It’s kind of a private joke,” the Demon muses, turning the gift in his hands. “Not too much is it?”  
Alexander doesn’t answer.  
“Hmm. He’ll like it,” the Demon says finally. “He’ll feel guilty about liking it, but he’ll like it.” It places the bracelet on the table, away from the pool of blood

Alexander tries to pull away as the Demon hops down from the table, heavy boots treading through the slick of blood as he walks over to Alexander's side. The human whines, low in the back of his throat.  
“Shhh,” the Demon murmurs, brushing silvered clay fingers through Alexander’s hair.  
“Bukavac,” Alexander wheezes, barely audible.  
The Demon smiles, and cradles Alexanders face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his eyelids. “My name is Bucky.”  
The Demon presses, and the skull crumples under his hands. He knows for certain that his master is dead when the Golem arm falls limply at his side.


End file.
